


The Conversation

by LeilaSecretSmith



Series: Lieutenant in Chains [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barad-dur, Gen, He really can't catch a break, Poor Sauron, Tea, Two dark lords having tea, because why not, how did I literally just notice I've been misspelling fёa this whole time, now with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaSecretSmith/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the places Saruman expected to end up in his dreams, having tea with Sauron in Barad-dûr was not one of them. </p><p>Or, Sauron knows he's not going to win and explains himself to Saruman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> I have two views of Sauron. One is the Angbang version. The other, which features in this story, is the decidedly not Angbang version. In this, Sauron (known as Mairon before his fall, if you didn't know that) was very young when Melkor coerced (not seduced) him to his side. It's sort of like AzureSkye23's, but more brutal. This is my internal exploration of that headcanon.

Of all the places Saruman expected to end up in his dreams, having tea with Sauron in Barad-dûr was not one of them.

Yet there he was, a delicate, dark metal teacup in his hand. Pale wisps of steam curled upward, carrying the scent of his favorite tea. Despite himself, he took a sip and found that it was exactly to his liking: dark, with the barest hint of honey-sweetness. How very odd. The design of the cup seemed familiar as well, though its origin eluded him.

“I forged a replica.”

Saruman jolted slightly at the smooth, low voice, turning his head to face his host, who was seated beside him. A small, round metal table, covered in tea-time paraphernalia, separated their chairs, both of which were angled toward a westward-facing balcony. The view was, unsurprisingly, a rather depressing ash-waste: common fare in Mordor.

“Beg pardon?” the White Wizard asked, mainly because he really didn’t know what else to say.

Those familiar glowing eyes, with irises like discs of molten gold, flicked toward him, half-lidded with exasperation. “The cups, Curumo,” Sauron said mildly. “I forged replicas of the ones we made in Valinor.”

“My _name_ is Saruman,” the wizard snapped reflexively, puffing up like a great white bird. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut as he realized he could not access the memory of these cups he had apparently forged; he chose not to say anything.

Sauron, ever cunning and perceptive, caught on immediately. His head canted to the side slightly, a fire-hued lock of hair falling over his shoulder. “Not even those memories did they leave?” He snorted and shook his head, taking a sip of tea from his own cup. “Of course they did not. Perhaps they thought teacups would lead to _meddling_.”

The scorn in the Dark Lord’s voice was clear, and despite his own treachery, Saurman found himself defending his (former) Lords. “They are not so foolish,” he hissed, fingers tightening around the warm metal. “It was for our own protection that they obscured all such memories, as we _willingly_ and _knowingly_ allowed.”

“Peace, Curumo,” Sauron said in dry amusement, holding up one hand in a calming gesture. “I meant nothing by it.”

“I very much doubt,” Saruman sneered, “that you have _ever_ spoken without intention, _Mairon_.”

The Dark Lord was not in the least bothered by Saruman’s thinly veiled insult. “Mayhap,” he allowed, turning his eyes to the black sky. “But nonetheless, I meant not to slight you.”

The White Wizard was still tense in his chair, and angry now as well. “Why do you darken my dreams, _my Lord?_ ” he spat, glaring venomously.

Sauron very nearly snorted tea out of his nose at the question, but saved his dignity at the last second, calmly lowering the cup back to its saucer. “I? Oh come now, dear, treacherous Curumo,” he purred, grinning a sharp, dangerous sort of grin. His head turned slightly, and Saruman caught a flash of gold from between the loose strands of hair that partially obscured his face. “‘twas _you_ who dared peer into the Palantír. ‘twas you who dared declare your false, _treacherous_ allegiance to me.” He laughed dangerously, eyes glinting with cunning malice. “You are fortunate I had returned to myself before you became audacious enough to turn your greedy gaze toward Mordor, or I would have _crushed you utterly_ for such daring.”

Saruman watched, somewhat rattled by the very real threat, as the Dark Lord took a delicate sip of tea. The mundane action contrasted sharply with the dark, dangerous aura that had hung over him like a shroud mere seconds ago. “Returned to yourself?” he muttered under his breath, brow furrowing.

“Yes, returned to myself, dear, _slow_ Curumo,” Sauron sighed, rolling his eyes and returning his gaze to the outside. “Why else would I have allowed your wandering fёa into _my_ dreams?”

Saruman’s lip curled at the condescending tone. “I was not aware you had a _self_ to return to, _my Lord_ ,” he snipped, running a finger along the smooth, bright Fire Opal inlaid in the teacup.

Sauron smiled again, sharklike. “Oh, ‘tis not _much_ of a self, but it is a self nonetheless,” he said. “’tis the way of things, is it not? To find yourself only once you thought all gone, only once you have descended past all reason and madness.” He hummed, reaching out with one elegant, scarred hand—the hand of a smith, strong and calloused, deft and gentle, so much like Saruman’s own—and picked up the dark teapot, pouring more into his nearly-empty cup.

Silenced, Saruman turned his eyes back to his own teacup. He considered it thoughtfully, trying in vain to remember the feel of Obsidian-Silver shaping under his hands, of engraving delicate curves, of gilding with gold and inlaying carefully shaped and polished Fire Opal. Alas, he could not, and for the first time in his years of service he resented the obscuring of his memory. He wished he remembered creating such art, even if he who was called _Mairon_ had a hand in it as well.

“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly, daringly, as he traced a whorl of gold with the pad of his finger. His mind strayed to the blank space that he knew held his memories of Aulë’s forges.

“I regret a great many things, and do not regret a great many more,” Sauron said mildly. “You will have to specify, Curumo.”

“Turning,” the White Wizard clarified, refusing to be riled up by the Dark Lord’s condescension. For the first time, he wondered what Marion had once been to him, for he did not remember.

“Ah,” Sauron hummed. “Oh yes, very much so.” He laughed bitterly when Saruman turned surprised eyes to him. “Dear Curumo, did you think that I remained untouched? That I was placed immediately at Melkor’s side, safe as his Lieutenant?” His golden eyes were cold and dark as he turned to gaze at his one-time peer. “If ever I found joy in my turning, and I _very much_ doubt that I did, it did not last my first hour in Utumno.”

[ ](https://imgur.com/lFKLeAX)

 

Saruman was, admittedly, rather confused by this. Always had he imagined Marion’s turn to the darkness as a thing he reveled in. He had imagined him as the arrogant second-in-command to the true Dark Lord, taking great delight in his own cruelty and the cruelty of his master. Never had he thought Sauron might have regretted his decision, certainly not so soon. It was inconceivable.

Sauron sighed tiredly, apparently sensing Saruman’s disbelief. “Curumo, surely you remember how Melkor swayed unwilling maiar to his side?” he asked. “Threats, lies, treachery, manipulation… I was no different. Young was I, foolish, and afraid for my brother. In weakness, I gave Melkor what he sought, and by then ‘twas too late for me, too late for mercy. I fled to Utumno, following in his footsteps. If ever I thought—”

He stopped abruptly and took a steadying sip of his tea as he looked back out over the wastes.

“He delighted in his acquisition of me,” Sauron revealed quietly. Saruman listened, horrified and entranced in equal measure. “I was, you see, his greatest prize, greater even than the Silmarilli in his eyes. For while those accursed gems were a trophy to display, I was as ore to him, raw, valuable, in need of smelting and shaping but capable of becoming _anything_ he wished of me; in me he saw a tool of infinite value. When first I arrived, I thought perhaps that all would be well. If I just did as he commanded, he would leave me alone.” His voice dropped to a whisper, eyes darkening visibly. “That hope lasted mere minutes.”

Saruman found he did not want to know what evil Melkor had wrought. He tried to command Sauron to stop but found that his tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth, rendering him mute.

“He took me to his private dungeons, deep within the bowels of the earth. He bound me to my fána, taught me to endure physical pain that would break any other. And when he had broken and rebuilt my fána over and over again, he turned to my fёa and ripped me apart, piece by piece, all the way down to my innermost self.” Saruman shuddered violently, mute with horror at the thought of someone ripping apart a fёa, even Sauron’s. The Dark Lord continued, heedless of Saruman’s revulsion. “He rebuilt me from these shreds, tied my essence to himself, placed traps within me so that _none_ but he, not even I, could touch or heal my fёa without dire consequences.”

Sauron took another sip of his tea before continuing in a haunted voice. “’twas Mairon, the Admirable, who was dragged into the darkness. But it was Sauron Gorthaur, Abhorred and Cruel, who emerged.”

Saruman, desperate to change the subject, blurt out the one relevant question he thought was safe to ask. “How then did you create the One, if you cannot touch your own fёa?”

Sauron smirked crookedly, and the chilling, haunted look faded from his eyes. “By using Melkor’s traps, of course. I perfectly excised the deepest, blackest part of my innermost self and poured it into the One, which had the advantage of augmenting my external control and removing a great deal of Melkor’s taint from within me. In theory, it may also have allowed me to regain myself, but I cannot be certain.”

Saruman was silent for a long while, staring, nauseated, down at his now lukewarm tea. “Why are you telling me these things?” he asked finally, unable to divine any possible rationale, except possibly a weak attempt to evoke pity.

Sauron hummed in the back of his throat, drinking the last of his tea and setting the cup and saucer down on the table. “Because it does not matter anymore,” he said, clasping his hands in his lap. He shut his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing the pale, scarred column of his throat. “I have heard the Theme again, Curumo. Heard and understood. It simply does not matter anymore.”

“ _You?_ Heard the Theme?” Saruman was disturbed that the Dark Lord could possibly have been so privileged as to hear the Music again, when even he could not.

“Perhaps I have passed beyond insanity and into something else entirely,” Sauron suggested wryly, an amused smile curving his lips upward. “Perhaps this is some twisted mercy on our Father’s part. I know not. But in any case, I have heard the Theme. I will be defeated.” He cast his eyes to the side, tilting his head toward the White Wizard. “I am tired, Curumo. I would see you learn from my mistakes. Know this: creating your own theme, defying our Father, is both exhausting and pointless. You will not succeed. And when you emerge from your haze of pride and arrogance, you will find that there is nothing left for you.”

Saruman stared, speechless, into the solemn golden eyes of his enemy. Deep within himself, he knew Sauron’s words to be true. But what could he do now? As Sauron had said of his own fall, it was too late for mercy. Besides, his pride would not allow for a quiet surrender.

“And what now do you seek, oh _Admirable_ one?” he sneered, his innards like ice. “Mercy? Forgiveness?”

Sauron laughed once, humorlessly. “Forgiveness? No. I am not so arrogant as that. Mercy? I rejected the chance once, out of fear, and would not ask it again. I seek only oblivion, but even that I do not think I will be blessed with. What I do now, I do in accordance with the Theme. In a final act of defiance, I have thrown off the shackles of Melkor and willingly donned the shackles of Eru Illúvatar.”

He shut his eyes and continued. “The Edáin will step into their power after great trial, just as the Eldar. My threat has galvanized them into action. Look at your own While Council, how long it took you to act against me in Dol Guldur! If I did not send my minions out, if I did not present a looming threat, they would not act at all.” He sighed and looked away, allowing his fiery hair to fall like a curtain around his face.

“I am tired, Curumo,” he repeated wearily. “I merely want this to be over as quickly as possible. Perhaps some of my actions are petty revenge, but mostly I do not care. I will enjoy my sanity for now, lament my foolishness, and when it is over, I will rejoice.”

Saruman was silenced once more, unsure if Sauron was being honest or if this was merely some new ploy. And yet, he still could not see how such a ploy would benefit the Dark Lord, other than earning a small, useless measure of pity.

“I am sure you do not believe me,” Sauron said, as if sensing his thoughts. “I would not expect you to. Know that after this, you will never see or hear from me again. But before you wake, I would ask a single favor of you.” Sauron turned fully to face him, and the White Wizard was taken aback by the raw grief in his eyes. “When you see him again, and I know you will, tell my brother Olórin one thing:”

“I am sorry.”


End file.
